


Long Night In

by squidmemesinc



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Aftercare, Collars, Dom/sub, Finger Sucking, Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Light BDSM, Mouth Kink, Other, Praise Kink, Robot Baths, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tactile, Thighfucking, authority kink, puns, referenced spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-03-29 08:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13922838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: Rodimus and Ultra Magnus get a little carried away.(Chaptered PWP)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A.... Chaptered PWP fic. Because I like to make life hard for myself, probably? I've been writing a much more sfw RodiMags (+Drift kinda) since October 2017 but it's not coming along as fast as I'd like and also [I think about this literally every day](http://cosmicdanger.tumblr.com/post/162480847952/for-junes-patreon-poll-illustration-roddymags) (nsfw), so, naturally... You know, I've run out of things to say.

Rodimus is motionless as Ultra Magnus latches the collar to the appropriate tightness around his throat. For now, the leash is slack in his hands, but he knows it won’t stay that way for the duration of their engagement. His aft plating smarts from the few but firm blows he’d received for his insubordination, and it’s cowed him into a subdued silence.

He flinches when Ultra Magnus’ thumb gently slides across the line of his jaw in a gesture that’s clearly meant to be soothing, only because he was surprised and not because he holds anything Magnus has done to him against him. He sees the flicker of hesitation in the larger mech’s optics and doesn’t respond to it, feeling sullen but unwilling to break character enough to be reassuring.

Magnus, to his credit, presses on with his usual professionalism. “You understand why you were punished, don’t you Rodimus?” His voice is quiet, but unapologetic. And yet still, there’s a question, or maybe just an offer on the table to reject the sentiment if he wanted to stop. Rodimus knows the protocol and he is where he wants to be. Even through the shame, something else burns brighter and fiercer deep within his array, thrumming through his spark. Magnus looks up again. “I need you to behave for me now.”

His hand drops away from Rodimus’ chin, but Rodimus holds his gaze, still keeping a petulant expression on his features. Ultra Magnus keeps his own expression impassive. The hesitation has receded for now, and he lowers himself back into the chair he’s drawn over to the berth and considers the thin strip of fabric in his hands as if he’s offended by it. His fingers twirl the leash a loop tighter in absent thought. “You will call me ‘Sir.’ You will follow my orders precisely and you will not deviate. You will not act without asking permission.” He pauses a moment to let this sink in. “Do you understand me, Rodimus?”

Rodimus swallows the swelling of lubricant that has filled his mouth and answers in a clear yet still soft tone, “Yes, Sir.”

Ultra Magnus gives a curt nod of satisfaction and gives the leash a bit more slack. “Lie back, and open your panels,” he instructs.

Rodimus complies wordlessly, his spike does not pressurize when he retracts the panel, and Magnus does give him a scrutinizing look, perhaps guessing he might have been rerouting his charge manually. Rodimus resists the urge to smile, but another thrill of excitement only makes the contrasting air against his valve grow a little colder. “Permission to make a statement, Sir?” he asks, unable to keep the tinge of coyness from his tone.

Magnus calculates and eventually relents. “Granted.”

“I seem to be in the mood for your spike, Sir.” He lets his legs tilt open a little wider to show off the enticing sight of his valve, already swollen and glistening from just what they’ve done so far.

Magnus’ lips thin out. “Not a statement as much as conjecture. I’m aware of your preference, but you will take whatever I deign to give you, and you will earn it.”

“Understood, Sir,” Rodimus all but sings, poorly containing his glee, he suspects. He’s already ready, and he knows the exact kind of payoff he seeks is far off. His enjoyment of these interactions tends to lie upon a bell curve, with the most tedious bit being Ultra Magnus’ prolonging of a high, sustained state of charge within him, whilst he denies him the most potent cycling of energy that is the reason for his engagement in this particular kind of torture. It’s a delicious and wonderful denial and he’d have no one but Magnus inflict it on him.

Magnus waits another beat before issuing another command. “Touch yourself—” Rodimus’ fingers slip between his legs in a flash, stopping when Magnus abruptly tugs on the leash and brings the collar flush against his throat. “—slowly, and not there. Your thighs and your stomach.”

Rodimus bites his lip as he draws his hands back. He trails the fingers of one hand lightly over his thigh armor, feeling the sensation bristle like fire through him. The other hand skirts along the biolights on his abdomen, dipping beneath the topmost seam of the armor around his array. He makes paths and follows them forward and backwards over his own plating, deviating once in a while for variety, to stimulate the edge of another transformation seam not often lavished with this kind of attention in favor of attending to the main event. It’s pleasant, but maddening. He’s begun to climb the steep hill of the bell curve and already having to resist the urge to forego Magnus’ instructions and get himself off the quick and easy way he’s most accustomed to.

“Very good, Rodimus,” Magnus’ words shoot through him like lightning and his fingers curl against his plating, hoping. He looks up at Magnus with big, pleading optics, but obediently remains silent and ghosts his fingers along those same tracks. “One finger,” he says, and quickly adds, “—slowly.”

This Rodimus can acquiesce to more gladly. With one hand he nudges his fingers between his lips and spreads them wide, exposing his opening to his other hand so he can tease one finger against the plush folds in just one smooth up and down motion. He twists the tip into himself with his lip pinned between his denta again, and lets it free with a soft slow gasp as he presses it as deep in as it’ll go. Magnus watches with that same impassive expression, as if this is purely medical to him, though Rodimus knows from the vigor of their previous sessions that his disinterest is part of the act, and both sides of that aspect appeal to him.

He moves his finger in and out of himself with precise slowness, barely daring to curl the tip up on the withdraw and sparking a greater, hungrier need in himself with each passing glance of friction. One finger is pitiful compared to what he wants, what he’s had numerous times before, and this pittance might as well be nothing. But it’s a precursor, and a test, and Magnus lets him repeat these rote motions what feels like endlessly, but just as it threatens to become boring, Magnus takes pity on him.

“Spread your legs a little more and add another finger,” Magnus says. “If you’re so keen for my spike, then I want you to stretch yourself out for me. Do not touch your node. Do not overload. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” Rodimus chokes out again with another soft moan as he slips another finger into his slick valve and spreads his fingers as far as he can. He could go louder, easily, as he works his valve open to a comfortable, pliable state, but Magnus has forbidden him from making a sound other than answering commands in the past, and he’s keen on hearing his own voice today, so he keeps it soft and subtle.

With this comes the point that Rodimus can no longer keep his spike from pressurizing. The crackle of the charged, hungry nodes in his valve as he strokes his fingers along them and eases them apart routes through his array, and the extra charge has to go somewhere. As soon as it’s fully pressurized he feels a strong urge to wrap his other hand around it, but he knows Magnus will cut all his attention off at that point, so he keeps it pinned against his thigh, rubbing little circles against his plating with his own thumb in an attempt to self-soothe.

He can’t overload from this, so he has to keep his movements a little rougher than he might if he were going at it unsupervised, and he can feel his frame reaching for the usual pleasure it knows he’s capable of providing.

“You’re doing well, Rodimus,” Magnus says. Rodimus could curse him for saying so. He wants to use the pleasure in those words, to get out of it what he knows he can, but that’s been expressly forbidden. “You may add a third finger.”

“Yes, Ultra Magnus, Sir,” Rodimus nearly sobs out this time. His spike gives a twitch at the increased stretch on his valve, and he’s getting a little dizzy for the want building in him. He’s nearing the point where he wants his own satisfaction of his hands. He wants to be at the mercy of Ultra Magnus’ light, practiced touches that have a unique way of skirting his pleasure and can keep it at bay for hours. His valve tightens reflexively at the memory of that particular evening, by the end of which he’d been reduced to a sobbing, pleading mess in Magnus’ arms. He lets out a sharp whine.

“Easy, Rodimus. You still have more to go.”

Rodimus cracks under the weight of his own need. “Your fingers aren’t even as big as all of mine together,” he complains.

Instantly the collar yanks up against his throat, choking his intake and stifling the hot air cycling through his systems. Ultra Magnus’ shadow blocks out the dim light overhead and his knuckles are pressed against Rodimus’ chest with the leash curled entirely around it.

“Give me your hand.” It’s almost frightening. The tone before had been largely stripped of intonation, but this is flat and dull in a way that makes Rodimus fully aware of the difference in their power. He lets out the softest of whimpers and lets Magnus’ fingers curl around his small, sticky ones. Even the relative gentility with which he does this doesn’t distract from the instinctive thrum of fear Rodimus feels. “Rodimus. Look at me.”

It takes two commands to his own reflexes before Rodimus’ manages it, twisting his helm so he can face Magnus looming over him. He’s surprised to find his expression is a degree warmer than his tone. “That’s right. Now listen. You want to make me happy, don’t you? You want to please me? You want me to appreciate all the things you do for me, Rodimus. My Captain.”

Another sound bleeds from Rodimus’ vocalizer, desperate and cornered and wanting. His hand is pinned between the flat of Magnus’ finger and his thumb, and something about the curve of that steady weight against his palm is reassuring. “That’s what I thought. I know how good you can be, Captain. I know how you can make me feel. So understand that trust in me is trust in yourself.”

Rodimus shakes his head slightly, more a flinch than a genuine rejection, stalled in its tracks when Magnus responds sharply to his movement. “Don’t shake your head. Listen to me, Rodimus. You’re a good boy. Say it.”

Rodimus whines. Magnus couldn’t have three fingers crammed into his valve and it wouldn’t ache as much as it does now. “I-I’m a good boy.”

“Do you trust me, Rodimus?”

“I trust you, Sir,” Rodimus replies weakly.

Ultra Magnus releases his hand, unwraps the leash from his fingers, and draws back to his previous position. “Four fingers, Captain. Nice and slow.”


	2. Chapter 2

Rodimus’ vocalizer looses more soft sounds as he works two fingers back into himself, then a third, and finally a fourth. His valve is fuller now than it might normally be, due to the awkward positioning of his hand curled against itself, providing additional stretch for the simple fact of spatial arrangement. There’s little pleasure in these movements, so wrapped up is Rodimus in the content of Magnus’ words. There’s another ache alongside the usual one now, a different kind of need that does truly arise out of wanting to please Magnus. If that means submitting to him and bending to the whim of his carefully structured rules, he’ll do it without regard for his own pleasure.

But of course Rodimus’ pleasure is still within the sights of Magnus’ interest. “Pull your hand back and sit up for me,” Magnus says, resting his fingertips along Rodimus’ jaw again once he does so. “How are you feeling?” This isn’t asked out of concern; it’s all tied into the same obedience as before.  _ ‘Do not overload.’ _ That was the instruction, and it’s Rodimus’ duty to adhere to it.

Still, he’s reluctant to admit how aroused he really is, because he doesn’t want to endure that torturous stopping. He’s lasted longer than this before, he knows; he’s undergone more, even though he feels a maddening desperation threatening to overtake him now. 

Rodimus shakes gently as he leans into the gentle touch. His optics are cast down as he laments the sealed panel over Magnus’ spike housing and he curls his clean hand around Magnus’ knuckles and rests his whole weight there. There’s something to be said for playing the middle road, which he can manage by only exaggerating a little. “Magnus, please, I want you, I need you— Sir, please…” His vocalizer crackles with static and and imploring, but Magnus frowns.

“You’re going to overload if I touch you,” he says.

Rodimus lifts his head out of Magnus’ curled fingers and shakes it vigorously. “No, Sir, I won’t. I promise I won’t.” But the decision is out of his hands, and he hasn’t technically lied. He  _ wants _ to hold out. And he’d be willing to try. He doesn’t know what Ultra Magnus has in store for him, after all, so it wouldn’t be fair to say either way.

“That wasn’t a question, Rodimus,” Magnus retorts sharply. “Be still.” He brings his hand close enough to touch him again, thumb dusting across his cheek, around the outside curve and dipping down around the side of his mouth. All the while, Rodimus keeps his eyes fixed on Ultra Magnus’ optics, sensing he has an alternative plan. 

Magnus is not keeping strict eye contact now, but watching the tip of his thumb as it traces the seamless structures of Rodimus’ face and finally lands on his lower lip. He takes a moment to register the softness of it before issuing his next command. “Open,” he says. 

Rodimus lets his lips part tentatively, having to choke off in the middle of a moan when Magnus nudges his finger inside. It presses lightly against his bottom denta, reaches in slightly deeper and pulls down, opening his mouth further. Rodimus has to avert his eyes now or the careful focus in Magnus’ unguarded expression will have too great an effect on him. Another moan keens from his throat as Magnus traces around his dental ridge now, probing his thick finger into the back of his mouth so it presses between his upper and lower rows of teeth. He gives another solid shudder. His spike twitches and his valve contracts maddeningly, and though this brief interlude must have been an effort on Magnus’ part to cause his arousal to stall, so far it’s having the opposite effect. 

Magnus must surely be aware of this fact as he draws his thumb back and offers Rodimus his index finger, but his attention must have shifted, because he seems unwilling or perhaps unable to deter himself from his own actions. Sparing a quick glance up to Magnus’ face, he reaches up for the sides of Magnus’ hand and holds them as if intending to guide his pace, though he doesn’t yet push or pull him. Ultra Magnus allows it, or perhaps doesn’t notice, and presses his finger in one joint so it just brushes the tip of his tongue before withdrawing. It doesn’t pass Rodimus’ lips before he pushes it in again, this time up to the second joint and filling his mouth to a comfortable fullness by simple virtue of the difference in their sizes. 

The tip presses and strokes against his tongue in tiny, circular motions, and Magnus seems content to stop there, but Rodimus takes advantage of his inaccessible vocalizer to bend Magnus’ rule about asking for permission. He tugs on Magnus’ hand gently, looking up with the question posed in his optics rather than his words. Ultra Magnus does pull his finger back entirely, but hoarsely whispers, “Relax your throat,” and positions the tip at his lips again. Rodimus allows himself to take a little pleasure in the obvious effect this is having on the larger mech before continuing.

He nods against him and swallows in preparation. He parts his lips and welcomes Magnus’ finger back inside, though aware that Magnus is barely pressing forward, but allowing him to make the movements instead. Rodimus gets up to the second knuckle with ease and then does as Magnus had indicated and adjusts his throat open, moving forward to swallow down the rest so his lips are stretched against the joint of his second finger.

He may imagine Magnus making a soft noise, or perhaps it may emanate from his own vocalizer, because he certainly hasn’t been silent this whole while. Rodimus slowly works himself back and forth over Magnus’ finger, letting it slicken up from the lubricant welling inside his mouth. He guides it along the smooth inner mesh of his cheek once comfortable enough with the intrusion deeper in his intake, again coaxing a desperate flexing from his valve that he ignores for the sake of servicing Magnus’ fingers and watching minute changes in his expression.

But after only a few repetitions, Magnus wordlessly draws his finger back—only to offer him the next finger. Rodimus lavishes the same attention on this, offering more sounds from his own vocalizer, imagining it encourages Magnus’ proclaimed motive of pleasing him. He does the same to the third before Magnus pulls his hand back entirely, spreading a thick string of pink lubricant from his lips that breaks and dirties his chin and chest plate.

Magnus frowns at the mess and uses the dry edge of his hand to gently remove it. Again, his hand skates in a gentle brush over Rodimus’ plating, in a soft gesture of wonderment out of place for one meant to be disciplining another, and yet somehow it fits their interaction well.

Rodimus waits, bristling with raw energy flowing through him, following in surges wherever Magnus’ touch lights against him. He eventually flicks his eyes back up to Magnus’ optics, and they lock on each other.

“Lie down again, Captain.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of this silliness

Rodimus is, again, obedient, and eager to be so now that he’s earned Ultra Magnus’ touch. He shivers with anticipation as Magnus leans over him, repeating the motions he’d had Rodimus do to himself to increase his want, but this time it’s nearer to relief when Magnus strokes his side, all the way down his thigh with a ghostly light touch. 

“Spread your legs for me,” Magnus says. Rodimus throws his head back against the berth and does so, closing his optics briefly as Magnus’ fingers trail up the inside of his thighs. He avoids Rodimus’ node and his spike, which is now throbs dully in envy of the lavish attention spent on his valve. He rubs up and down the mess of his slit a few times, circling once or twice, making Rodimus writhe and keen and stifle a few noises into his fingertips. 

Magnus drops his other hand up near his helm, pinning the leash slack under it, and hovers closer to him, eyes fixed on his own hand as his fingers spread Rodimus open. Rodimus whines when Magnus lets him suffer the disparity in the air around him for a torturous moment before he’s filled with a new warmth.  _ Two _ of Magnus’ fingers screw into him, pressing in deep and using their girth to full advantage to stimulate as many of his inner nodes as possible. Rodimus twitches again, his arms going up towards his shoulder where he’s aware of Magnus’ arm available within his reach. 

He’s distracted for a moment as Ultra Magnus easily slides his slick fingers in and out, bending and straightening them just slightly to put pressure on different parts of him. As of yet he’s made no genuine attempts at eliciting pressure or even hinted at a speed, but just having Magnus inside him has Rodimus excessively flustered. “Sir— Magnus— Please…” Rodimus pants, losing track of his request as Magnus continues to idly stroke at his plush, wanting insides.

“Use your words, Rodimus. What do you want?” This time it’s coaxing, gentle, inviting even, and Rodimus feels another shiver ripple through him.

“May I touch you, Sir?” Rodimus pleads, stretching his fingers out towards his arm. Magnus optics follow that movement, and he nods after a moment. Rodimus’ hands curl around that anchor and moans when the larger mech’s fingers drive deeper into him, stimulating nodes deep within his valve that he can’t reach with his own methods. 

It feels so nice to be grounded to Magnus, as he finally establishes a pace with regular friction, something to keep Rodimus pinned to the spot as the force of his thrusts threaten jostle his frame. His own additions to that movement are perhaps disguised by the vigor, but Magnus hasn’t yet told him to restrain himself. Rodimus dares to slur a ‘Magnus’ into a moan without the honorific, feeling more prone to affectionate terminology the more Magnus drives into him.

But Rodimus’ arousal hadn’t really ebbed so much during their interlude, and he’s recalling Ultra Magnus’ instructions to him with regret. “Sir,” he sobs out as his calipers ripple in ecstasy. “I can’t last—if you keep going like this!” 

“I know,” Magnus responds. “You’re alright, Captain.” Rodimus nearly comes right there, from that tenderness in his voice when he calls him ‘Captain.’

His hands tighten around Magnus’ armor. This has none of the usual finesse he pulls when he’s trying to draw out a long and arduous climb to the peak, and all of the vigor present when trying to bring him to overload. Words become garbled and lost as Rodimus’ vocalizer spawns sound on every thrust. He couldn’t close his mouth if he wanted to, and he feels as if he’s contorted his frame in a series of coiling points between Magnus’ hands. Magnus’ fingers beat against a focused group of nodes inside him, building and building the charge until it finally can’t be contained any further within Rodimus and it spills over. 

His spike twitches as transfluid spurts from it, dirtying his abdomen, but that’s nothing compared to the mess of other lubricants between his legs, coating the berth and his thighs and hand and Ultra Magnus’ as well. Magnus keeps his fingers stuffed in him, working through the last ebbing charge that radiates from his nodes, until he’s sufficiently stilled and the only movements are just twitches of his spent frame.

Rodimus doesn’t let go of his arm, even when he starts to stand up and pull it away. He grabs for his hand as it pulls away, and Magnus pauses briefly and squeezes his fingers gently, but does right himself.

Rodimus gets the sense that this is the end of it for today, but he feels compelled to sulk despite the significant amount of charge he just burned off. Ultra Magnus is cleaning off his hand with a towel he’s pulled from his subspace with detail so meticulous it might be a little insulting if it wasn’t something Rodimus was already accustomed to. “Mags, come on,” he says, dropping all the formality and subordinance from his tone and opting for something a little more familiar. “I can still go.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll be fine,” Magnus replies. It’s not curt; he sounds sincere. But Rodimus isn’t satisfied. 

“You know as well as I do that I wouldn’t ‘trouble’ myself over it. I want to.” He watches Magnus work the cloth between his two forefingers with annoying precision. “Did you like what I did to your fingers?” he hints, smirking. “Works on more than just fingers.”

Magnus’ expression deepens from concentration to something of a wince. He discards the towel. “Rodimus, you know I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I want to see that you’re taken care of.” He looks back at him and notices the collar still around Rodimus’ neck. He’d been playing with the leash, and turns away from him with the strap in hand, curling his arms around the coiled fabric he’s pulled into his lap protectively. 

“I like it,” he explains.

“Rodimus, please cooperate with me.”

“What’s in it for me?” Rodimus baps the loop of the leash on the tips of Magnus’ fingers as he tries to reach towards him to undo the collar. 

Magnus drops his hands to the edge of the berth and fixes him with a serious look. “I was hoping we could take a bath.”

Rodimus scrutinizes him for a moment, registering the slightly abashed twinge to his mouth, and the way his field still tingles with distinct arousal. He smiles and unfurls himself to present his neck so Magnus can remove the collar.

“A bath, huh? To get me cleaned up? Or to get us both dirty again?”

“I’d thought we might be clean by the end of it,” Magnus mutters as he fiddles with the latch. It pops free and he slips it off Rodimus’ neck. 

“Mm,” Rodimus hums. “Okay, fine. But you have to carry me. Nicely, not slinging me over your ridiculously massive shoulders like you do to guys who get shot.” 

“Naturally,” Magnus replies, as if he’s anticipated this, extending his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I have things in mind for the rest of this but I could possibly be persuaded of other fun bath time mischief


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, sorry for the delay. Life happened to me, unfortunately. I definitely will finish this! (Maybe today but don't hold me to it). One more chapter, I think.

Rodimus sinks into the heat of Ultra Magnus’ bath, warming it with his own heat until it nearly simmers. It’s deep enough to accomodate for the massive mech, so he could stand if he wants, but along the sides of it are ledges, which of course Rodimus realizes must be suit Minimus as well. He nestles his chin on his arms folded on the rim of the tub and offline his optics, feeling a deep sense of relaxation wash over him. Normally he might be impatient for Magnus to hurry up with his armor and rejoin him, but it’s so comfortable with the water soothing the tenseness under his plating that he forgets that impulse for a minute.

There’s the soft sound of hydraulics and footsteps, and the water sloshes over Rodimus’ back as his lover finally joins him. Rodimus feels a cloth pressed against his spoiler and shivers a little at the fresh contact, onlining his optics again. “Straight to business, huh?” he quips, wiggling his shoulders pointedly at Minimus’ gentle scrubbing. “You’re still wearing your armor,” he notes. Though it’s the white and green that mimics his true form rather than the Magnus armor, Rodimus had thought he would undress completely.

“The point was to take a bath,” Minimus says stubbornly, ignoring the comment about his armor.

“Oh, that was the point, was it?” Rodimus reaches around and tugs for Minimus’ arm. He gives in easily and with a soft sigh, and letting Rodimus pull it around him. He plants his hand over his spark so that they’re aligned, with Minimus now flush against his back. Rodimus shifts them slightly, moving easily in the water so he’s off and away from the ledge and they both have their pedes on the floor of the bath.

“Rodimus, I really don’t need to—”

“Forget ‘need to,’” Rodimus murmurs, bumping his aft back against Minimus’ groin. “Do you _want to?_ Listen Mims, there’s clean and then there’s—” he makes a distinct motion with his hand that he’s sure Minimus picks up on, even through the water, “—you know, _clean.”_

“I don’t want you to get overstimulated,” Minimus says insistently.

“I won’t.” Rodimus reaches for Minimus’ other hand where it’s landed on his side and pulls it between his legs. “But you can just do my thighs if you’re that worried.”

He guides Minimus’ fingers over the curve of his inner thigh, above the lip of the armor plating that runs diagonally across the lower half of it. “There’s a spot right here...just for you,” he says quietly, reaching out with his field enticingly. Minimus is leaning his helm against Rodimus’ neck and begins tracing circles against the inner portion of Rodimus’ thighs of his own accord. Rodimus feels a reverberation run the length of his spine as he moans softly.

“I’m not accustomed to being spoiled,” Minimus complains softly.

“You know me, I’m a _spoiler_.” Rodimus grins and wiggles his shoulders so that Minimus can feel his pun. He doesn’t mention the little thrum in his spark when he wants to reply that it’s usually Minimus spoiling _him_.

Either way, Minimus doesn’t reply, and Rodimus has to wonder if even that joke was lost on him. He keeps smiling and rocks back against him again, trying to entice his stubborn lover to engage with him. Minimus’ hand over his spark roams the length of his torso, exploring transformation seams and teasing along the dips and curves of his paneling. But when that incites Rodimus to squirm back against him, he feels the reciprocated energy in the way Minimus hugs him to his chest.

How anyone has the patience for this, Rodimus might never understand. The slow build of gentle touches spiralling through his sensors is enough to make Rodimus wish he’d insisted he just spike him, but this way he might be able to work one more round out of Minimus, so he bites his lip and continues to grind between his frame and his hands.

Finally, Rodimus feels Minimus’ facial insignia tickle the back of his neck as he plants a soft kiss on it. His hand moves from his thigh to his hip and holds it still, his other arm moving again to curl around Rodimus’ middle. The click and hiss of his spike panel withdrawing and his spike pressurizing wouldn’t have been audible through the sloshing of the water if Rodimus hadn’t specifically been listening for it, and he lets a pleased hum emanate from his throat with his lips sealed still in a smile.

He feels Minimus’ spike brush against his aft, teasing the far seam of his valve panel, which urges him to slide it open again, but he keeps it closed, wanting to test his limitations with tactile interfacing for Minimus’ sake. Minimus guides himself between the small gap between Rodimus’ thighs, and Rodimus tightens his hold on the edge of the tub, clicking his boots together and pressing Minimus’ spike between his plating.

“Rodimus…” Minimus groans into his ear, starting with a slow but even pace that consistently pushes and pulls the water around him. As it waves up and over his back and chest, it adds another layer of sensation to mingle with the heat and friction between his legs, and Rodimus hums out again, gripping the side of the tub.

Rodimus cranes his helm back, inviting Minimus’ to come in more against his neck. Mid-thrust, he readjusts, reaching his own hand out to grab the side of the tub for leverage, still holding Rodimus against him, and planting his pedes firmly on the tub floor so he can rock his hips against the other mech. Rodimus gasps as the friction between his thighs mounts higher and starts to burn as his paint is stripped away. The sensation roots straight to his array, especially when Minimus’ spike slips up and bumps against his valve panel, battering it with nudges and vibrations that make Rodimus’ spark sing.

His soft sounds gather volume and form as the heat in him grows again. There’s no chance of this bath getting cold if they keep this up. Rodimus presses his check into the side of Minimus’ helm and squeezes his thighs together. “Yeah, just like that… Frag, Mims, frag me harder! Come on, baby— _ooh_ —”

“Rodimus…!” Minimus murmurs into his neck again, forcefully slamming his hips forward and back as he approaches overload. “Urgh, _Captain._ ” He squeezes Rodimus tight and fucks him harder.

“ _—Ah!_ You—” Rodimus’ whole frame tenses suddenly and his thighs twitch around Minimus’ hot spike as a shiver wracks him. The water sloshes violently, good amounts of it spilling out of the tub with the force of their rocking and writhing. Rodimus hears Minimus’ groans mix with the tail end of his own whine, and his valve throbs behind its panel as Minimus’ spike twitches between his legs.

When it’s over, Minimus clings to his back, and Rodimus clings to the wall, aware of his fans spinning, muted, and hot air routing out his mouth as he pants.

Minimus recovers first, tugging Rodimus with him over to the ledge of the tub to sink against it. Rodimus reaches for him, but he starts to pull away as if he means to get out. “What are you doing?” Rodimus breathes a demand, optic ridges drawing together.

“We should drain the bath,” Minimus explains. His optics are shimmering a bit brighter, but otherwise you might not know he’d just overloaded. “So we can actually clean up.”

Rodimus scoffs and flips over as Minimus steps out. “Hold on there, buster.” Minimus looks up at him. Rodimus fights down a sheepish grin and cocks his head to the side again, opting for coy instead. “You got me all worked up again, and you better take responsibility.” He winks. “That’s an order, by the way, cuz I can do that.” He can’t believe Minimus pulled his title on him in this kind of situation. What a dirty trick, for someone so intent on getting clean.

Minimus might be smiling, but Rodimus can’t tell under the facial insignia. He’d be disinclined to believe it if it hadn’t happened once or twice before. “You wouldn’t have to order me to. But I’m still going to drain the bath.”

“Have it your way,” Rodimus says with a dismissive wave of his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here u go ;3

Rodimus sulks and tries to make himself shiver as the bath drains _completely_ , hugging his legs in towards his frame as he sits on the ledge and watches Minimus carefully adjusting the controls. The tub fills slowly, but it’ll be a while until he’s back in that warm, luxurious water with Minimus.

“Aren’t you going to take that off?” Rodimus asks, watching Minimus fiddle with the hot water. He’s talking about the armor again.

Minimus looks at him. “I could,” is the evasive reply.

“What’s stopping you?”

Minimus looks back at the bath taps. “I thought you might be more comfortable this way.”

Rodimus snorts. “What are you, embarrassed?” This sounds a little harsh, even to him, and he backpedals just a little, ever so slightly softening his tone. “I like all your sizes. Might as well get one of each today.” He gives a soft, smooth smile.

“I’m not embarrassed,” Minimus insists. “But I wasn’t sure of your feelings. I suppose I should have asked earlier.” Rodimus thinks his posturing looks just a little bit happier. Relaxed would be a stretch, but he’s never seen Minimus in any form free of tension.

The bath has filled back up three-quarters of the way by now, and Rodimus trods through it to the head of the bath. “I think I can handle this if you wanna—” He clucks his tongue and gestures with his head towards where Magnus stores the rest of his armor. Despite what he might say, Rodimus is pretty sure he’s at least a little shy, since he always insists on changing out of sight. But it tickles him a little that every time the mech steps behind the curtain and comes out again, he’s different. It’s a cool magic trick, and Rodimus can certainly appreciate that.

Minimus nods, and in that brief moment Rodimus realizes he hasn’t gotten to kiss him yet this whole evening. But before he can make any demands, Minimus has disappeared, and he’s left to play with the bath controls. He adjusts them up one degree, then down one degree, alternating each minute with a lazy flick of his wrist. Minimus likes his baths at a very particular temperature, which Rodimus certainly ruins by being essentially a furnace, but it’s always warm enough for him and Minimus doesn’t ever complain, so he abides by his rules.

The tub reaches full again and he stops the flow, wading again over to the edge of the tub to let his feet dangle off the lip that sticks out from it. He throws his arms over the side, hooking his hands over it, and sinks back into comfort. His arousal has ebbed slightly, but he’s still caught up in recent memories of Magnus watching him as he eagerly fingered himself, Magnus’ fingers probing around his mouth and finally stretching out his valve, Minimus rocking with that same impossible strength against him with his spike sliding between his thighs.

His fingers brush over that plating now, where the paint has been scraped away and the autorepair buzzes through his system trying to recover the color. It’s still warm from the friction, and as he slides a finger along his valve panel, that certainly is as well.

Rodimus draws his finger up higher over his spike panel, teasing around the seam of it and feeling the thrill of sensation there. Yeah, that’s definitely good. And he seems to be in the mood for variety today, so he dares to indulge. Minimus had already promised him another round, so he lets the panel retract and his spike instantly pressurizes into his hand. He gives it a squeeze and sighs out a long, happy sigh.

“Starting without me?”

Rodimus rolls his head up and doesn’t take his hand off his spike as Minimus climbs into the tub. He thinks again about kissing him, he imagines the slide of slick, tight valve mesh enveloping his spike, and a fresh wave of heat surges in him again. He reaches for Minimus as he lowers himself back into the water and tugs him across it, up into his lap. Minimus thighs spread around his own and the momentum of the water washes him up flush against Rodimus’ chest.

It’s hard to believe this is the same mech that had him bent over his knee just a few hours ago, that the same stern voice commanding him to pleasure himself slowly belongs to the little mech seated in his lap. He feels a rush of affection that he doesn’t voice aloud, choosing instead to Minimus’ jaw in his hand and pull him up for that kiss he’d coveted earlier.

Minimus’ hands go to his shoulders and he leans up into the kiss. His facial insignia tickles Rodimus’ nose just slightly when he nips at Minimus’ lips with his own. This is a softer kiss than he might usually opt for, but no less passionate. The heat collected in him from their previous encounters this evening bubbles back up in him again and he tugs Minimus closer against his frame, encouraging friction against his spike pinned between them.

Minimus lets his own spike deploy into that space as well, and it rubs along Rodimus’ as it does so, making them both groan. “Rodimus, your hand—” he murmurs against his Captain’s lips, stretching his own smaller fingers around their spikes. Rodimus eagerly takes his opposite and locks them together in his broader grip span, his other hand cupping Minimus’ aft so they can rock together.

Sparks struggle and die in the water from their metal grating together, but the effect their movements are having on one another is undeniable. Minimus hand opts to curl around the upper portion of Rodimus’ spike, squeezing and shifting his fingers to get pressure on that part of him that’s not rubbing alongside his own equipment, and Rodimus heaves a breathy sigh into his mouth that tips up into a moan at the end.

Minimus keeps his movements sturdy against him as Rodimus threatens to melt. He takes control of their messy kiss and curls his hand around Rodimus’ neck, thrusting against him so Rodimus just has to keep his hand tight around their spikes. A pang of pride bubbles up in Rodimus’ spark when he realizes this and something tells him he ought not to be submissive in _all_ of their engagements tonight. He slows his pace a little and pecks at Minimus’ lips and cheeks. “You’ve got the strong hands,” he says, tugging the one around his neck down to their spikes. “Let me be the engine.” This he whispers, letting his own rumble and rev, further disturbing the already sloshing water.

Minimus’ hips squeeze around Rodimus’ thighs and he nods, caging in their spikes between the sturdy grip of both his hands. Rodimus grips Minimus’ aft with both his hands and grinds him into him in earnest, pistoning his hips upwards, moving efficiently and steadily as if they were one machine. The water in the tub rolls in mad waves, spilling even more onto the floor than their earlier session. It washes up around and between them and slaps against their plating, increasing the chaos of their coupling, but it only fuels Rodimus further towards another overload. All these sensations wracking across his frame, centering at a coiling heat in his array that finally releases as charge surges through him.

The smaller mech continues to lean up and rock against him as Rodimus’ movements slow automatically. Minimus leans forward up onto his knees, the tip of his helm rising above Rodimus’ tallest kibble as he presses down into him, kissing him with a feverishness not often seen in the Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord. Rodimus grins as he imagines Tyrest hearing about all the things they’ve done and wonders what his reaction would be, if he weren’t rotting in the pit.

After a few vents muffled by Minimus’ soft but insistent kisses, Rodimus grabs him again, flipping him around in the water and pulling him into his lap so he can curl his fist around his spike. Minimus gasps and grips Rodimus’ arm, rocking his hips in what must surely be a restrained manner as Rodimus presses his lips to the top of his helm. “Don’t hold back, Mims, come on.”

“Ah, Rodimus— Just...a little more—” Minimus gasps, his plating shifting with little spasms as Rodimus pumps his hand vigorously. Rodimus knows he’s not used to this pace, but he can’t resist the temptation to press him just a little. His grip on Rodimus’ arm is crushing, denting his armor a little as he teeters on the edge of pleasure, but Rodimus lets it go for the sake of what he gets to observe. With just a few more strokes, Minimus cries out and thrusts harder into Rodimus’ grip, shaking with overload.

The water gradually settles around them to near stillness. Rodimus keeps leaning forward against Minimus, and Minimus lies loose and slack back against him.

“I’m at my limit,” Minimus says eventually, still venting hard.

“No mercy,” Rodimus smiles into his helm as he holds Minimus against him. Surely he could break free if he wanted to, but he only offers the weakest of struggles, and that may be just to reposition himself more comfortably.

“Rodimus, please,” Minimus says weakly.

“We really do have to work on your sense of humor,” Rodimus muses, drumming his fingertips along Minimus’ side and making him squirm. “Could it be the reason you were so worried about me getting overstimulated is because that’s what happens to you? Hmm, I wonder.” His fingers do go still though, and they remain like that for another minute before Minimus makes to move again.

“What’s the problem now?” Rodimus asks, throwing his helm back. “You know it’s a little hard for me to admit this, seeing as I’m so impressive and unshakable, but I love a good post-interface cuddle.”

Minimus twists around and takes Rodimus’ hand in his own, bringing it to his lips and giving it a soft kiss. Rodimus stills. “I know,” the smaller mech says, “but I have to drain the tub again.”

Rodimus stares at him for just a moment. He then pulls his hand back and stands, wading over to the edge of the tub and stepping out of it. “I have a better idea. Let’s take a shower and go recharge. You owe me at least eight hours of cuddling after all these interruptions.”

“Is that an order?” Minimus asks, another difficult to parse expression on his face that Rodimus chooses to believe is ‘struck by his Captain’s charm.’

“You know what,” Rodimus says, putting his hands on his hips, “yes. Yes, it is.”


End file.
